


walk a tightrope (this heart is burning up)

by folignos



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaromir should know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walk a tightrope (this heart is burning up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [derryderrydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/gifts).



> for derryderrydown, who asked for jagr/g lovers to friends. this is-- not quite that, but i hope you like it anyway!

Jaromir should know better. He’s old enough, and he’s played hockey long enough, and he’s been having sex long enough to know better. He thinks about blaming it all on his three years in Europe, where everything is different, but. That doesn’t make Claude less fast asleep in his bed, drooling a little on his pillow.

The marks on his back are just starting to fade. In the gloom, Jaromir can just pick them out, red and sore. Jaromir remembers putting them there with pinpoint accuracy.

Claude snuffles, and rolls over, taking the sheets with him. A bite mark on his inner thigh, just above the knee, gets exposed when he shifts and the thin sheet ripples away from him.

Jaromir knows _better_ than to stand in the doorway like this and watch his chest rise and fall, and yet.

It had started easy, this thing with Claude, but they always do, don’t they? He looked at Jaromir like he was the sun and the moon and the stars and the Stanley Cup, all rolled into one, and Jaromir-- it’s not the first time, someone has looked at him like that and he’s folded.

Claude kissed like he’s only ever kissed women before, careful and soft and like he’s a little afraid of them. Jaromir had bitten his lip and made him shudder, and when he licked into his mouth, he could taste the cheap beer Claude was drinking.

‘You’re making three million dollars,’ Jaromir had murmured into his ear. ‘You could try something a little-- nicer.’

‘I could try you,’ Claude had said, young and brash and four beers deep and glowing with it, grinning wide enough for Jaromir to see that he’s not wearing his tooth.

Yes,’ Jaromir had said, nipping Claude’s earlobe. ‘You could.’

Claude is quiet and patient until Jaromir touches him, he finds, lying naked in Jaromir’s sheets in a sprawl like he’s waiting for someone to take a picture. He looks like a painting, all pale skin and wild curls and pink, pink cheeks. Jaromir stands in the doorway and watches him, eyes hooded. 

Claude is already hard, when Jaromir gets on the bed, settles on his knees between Claude’s thighs. Jaromir wraps his fingers around him and strokes once, twice, until Claude is straining with the effort of not fucking up into his fist. Jaromir wonders what it’ll take for Claude to stop being so well behaved.

He fucks him slowly, easily, long strokes that make him keen and cry out. He reminds Jaromir of Alexei suddenly, brutally, and Jaromir closes his eyes and keeps moving.

Jaromir showers, after, and he’s gone, when he gets out. He sleeps sounder than he maybe should, under the sheets that still smell like Claude. He’s not expecting it to happen again. Claude was drunk, and Jaromir-- well, he knows better than to get involved with a kid like Claude.

Except for how he doesn’t, apparently, because the next home game ends up with Claude sitting in his lap in the cab home, and the one after that, and the one after that.

He fucks him, and then Claude goes home, and it’s the same old story every time, and Jaromir is _too old_ for this, and yet. And yet.

It’s been months. Jaromir’s fallen into a pattern. He gets off, he showers, he falls asleep alone. 

He fucks Claude from behind. It’s rough. He leaves bruises, scratches, the faintest hints of blood rising to the surface in beads. He showers off the sweat and the lingering anger from the loss and when he reaches his room, Claude is clutching a pillow and snoring faintly. 

Jaromir should wake him up. He knows this. He knows _better_.

Claude stirs. He half blinks open an eye, gives Jaromir a lazy, sleepy smile. ‘Come to bed,’ he mumbles, sleep garbled.

Jaromir pauses. Jaromir thinks.

Jaromir comes to bed.


End file.
